A Fortress of Pebbles

“Is Grandpa dead?” Cassandra said again – deploying Dad’s fake-curious voice right back at him.

The silence lasted several thousand years. Maybe if she kept asking the same question every few millennia, there would be silence forever. Mom’s tears were confused about whether to brim over or retreat. Dad was having an important staring contest with the kitchen tiles.

“We saw his grave today,” Orion added nonchalantly, handing Dad back the assault rifle and looking in the fridge for mac and cheese. “How come there’s no food ready?” Then, just as Mom’s eyes were starting to narrow, he seemed to remember the original plan. “My stomach hurts. Can we go to the hospital?”

Cassandra winced. Not the strongest delivery. She cut in, “You’re right, we did go on a field trip with the principal. Wixler, Wexler? Doesn’t really matter, does it? Because he’s not even the principal anymore.”

She surveyed the parents for flashes of recognition – but nothing. In fact, Dad became very serious and started asking if the principal had touched either of them.

“No, but there was a headstone with Grandpa’s name on it and everything,” added Orion.

“Oh, God,” said Mom, almost dropping an entire box of ammunition on her foot as she grew faint and clutched at the kitchen wall. Dad caught her and helped her to one of the recliners in the living room.

While Mom closed her eyes, Dad perched on the side of the recliner, her hand in his, and said, “What do you mean he’s not the principal anymore? He got fired?”

They didn’t know, Cassandra realized. Was anyone in-the-know around here? The Masters certainly weren’t, and it was looking increasingly likely that the parents weren’t masterminds either.

“He’s from the Fortress,” Orion said. “Actually, he’s a woman. And her principal body got ripped to pieces by some of Grandpa’s bone…” He trailed off, searching for the word.

“Collectors,” muttered Cassandra who was suddenly wishing she’d sprung this on the parents without Orion.

“Collectors! I think that’s right!” said Orion. “Anyway, it was gross. Blood everywhere.” He inspected the back of his jacket over his shoulder. “Do I have it on me, Cassandra?”

Cassandra glanced at his back and saw that, indeed, there were several brown spots from when the Master of Mind had been torn to shreds right next to them. She began to feel woozy – not from the blood, per se, but from the literally billions of blood-borne pathogens that could live in a single spot of blood. Hepatitis and Ebola weren’t the half of it.

“Some,” she said in more of a whisper than she liked. “Do I?”

She slowly turned, and from Orion’s silence, she knew the answer was yes. Puke danger? Extreme. She wrenched out of her jacket and flung it across the room, as if she could throw the heebie-jeebies with it.

Mom and Dad watched all of this unfold with a mix of horror and confusion. Mom’s fingers caressed her lucky amethyst necklace, and Dad kept glancing at the bird clock, just visible through the kitchen door.

“Tell us what you know,” said Dad.

“No,” said Orion, folding his arms and practically begging to get grounded. “You tell us.”

***

Aissaba and Tassadu idled in the queue while the English speaking Rot Cultists finally got their turn to interact with the merchant. They traded what appeared to be a car exhaust pipe and a butterfly knife for a set of tools that might be for prying pebbles from trees. Then, after much discussion amongst themselves, they attempted to trade seven map pebbles and twenty life pebbles for a single language pebble.

“No,” said the merchant – a twin of the cafeteria lady back home who used to give Aissaba extra helpings. “We’re out.”

The trio then attempted to add their recently-acquired tool set to the bargain. This resulted in another “No” – but only after some hesitation.

“So you’re not exactly out,” said Lobster Pincers. “You’re just ‘out.’” With his modified hands, he made a gesture that was supposed to be air quotes.

“For you,” said the merchant, “we’re out. Maybe next week.”

The smaller of the three English speakers gave an irritated buzzy monologue that Octopus Tentacles translated as, “We could be convinced to throw in an Earth laptop – scuffed but working. And the carcass of a rare creature we recently acquired... deep in the volcanic deserts of the Master World...” His voice grew low, like a storyteller–

–but the merchant was having none of it. “What am I going to do with a carcass? Cook it?” She gestured over her shoulder at the rotisserie, where a pig-like animal was rotating slowly on its axis, the crank being turned by a bone collector approximating a small monkey.

“Clone it?” suggested Octopus. “Make an army of them? It’s none of my business. I just know that it’s one of the more fascinating pebble hybrids I’ve seen. I’m sure the Masters of Rot would be interested…”

“To make clones,” said the merchant, “I’d need to reflash my life pebbles with some kind of cloning protocol. And as I’ve told you three times now, I’m out of language pebbles until next week.”

Aissaba glanced at Tassadu who gave a small shake of the head and, in very unambiguous facial expressions, said, Don’t do it. Don’t do anything. Don’t be an idiot. She wasn’t sure what he thought she might do. She wasn’t planning anything. But then again, her fingers did just happen to be in her pockets, swirling the pebbles therein. There were four language pebbles, she knew – one containing her mother’s personality model, two having been sliced out of their stomachs recently, and one recovered from the smoke monster just outside the gates.

“So, what’s a language pebble worth around here?” someone said. When the merchant, the three English speakers, and several bystanders turned in her direction, Aissaba realized it had been her. Tassadu pulled his hood even lower, making it clear that Aissaba was on her own here.